


Long live the king

by Kangoo



Series: May his reign be of moderate lenght [1]
Category: Warcraft III
Genre: (even though I had to give two of the three last names because they didn't have any), @blizzard please love them, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Kidnapping, Mutiny, We know so little about these guys it's like writing OCs with pre-existing names, they are DONE with Arthas' shit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-14
Updated: 2016-07-14
Packaged: 2018-07-24 00:20:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7485939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kangoo/pseuds/Kangoo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Absens haeres non erit/An absent person will not be an heir.</i>
</p>
<p>There are no kings in Northrend, only men. </p>
<p>(There are also no laws saying that Falric shouldn't drag the unwilling crown prince to Lordaeron, fortunately.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Long live the king

**Author's Note:**

> Did you know they were more than one captain during the human campaign of Warcraft III:Reign of Chaos? I didn't until I looked for the name of the guy who dutifully followed by insane ass to Northrend without complaining. I also learned there were not only plurals but also all friends with Arthas as well as each other, and then I had to write them with some kind of common sense piercing through all this blind loyalty.  
> Title is from O Thanagor/Invincible, which is fitting because a) we like Arthas better when he's alive, we tried having him reign for ever once and it sucked, and b) I used cheat codes so much in Warcraft III and let me tell you 'Whosyourdaddy' is my fav  
> I may write a sequel, but for now enjoy this: it was written at 3 a.m, is shorter than this author note and is unbeta'd because I have friends who understand English, and friends who play Warcraft, but no friends who do both.

From an outsider's perspective, Captain Tyndall was as stoic and collected as ever but, to whoever looking closely at him, it was clear that the man was everything but calm.

 

(One of the few perks of his helmet, outside of its incredible style, was how well it hid his expressions).

 

Staring at the map of Northrend like it had insulted his whole family, Falric Tyndall muttered curses under his breath. His grip on the war table was so tight it could be heard creaking underneath, and one would have been able to see the shape of his armored gauntlet embed in the wood if only he bothered to leave the poor thing alone.

 

What was the reason of such frustration, well hidden under a carefully composed exterior? What could possibly drive a hardened warrior like him to this point?

 

Prince Arthas Menethil, that's what.

 

Captain Tyndall was loyal to a fault, and he would follow those he pledge allegiance to through the Void itself if it was asked of him, no matter how many stupid decisions they took beforehand. And, because he was respected and even loved by his men, they would follow _him_ too and soon this whole thing would become a giant expedition to the great Nothing out-there, only because one knight -one reckless, stupid Knight- looked at the Void and thought 'yeah, I can think of worst things to do on a Tuersday morning'.

 

In fewer words, Captain Tyndall's undying loyalty to Lordaeron -and, more personally, its crown prince- tended to bring him as much good than bad things in life. Lately, it had mostly been the later.

 

“He told me to wait for some mysterious mage 'friend', and I did!” He ranted under his breath, finally leaving the war table to pace in the narrow space of the empty commandment tent. His prince had fucked off Light-knows-where with the dwarf, leaving him behind to command their little -now illegal- expedition. “He told me to follow him or leave, and -against my better judgment- I did!”

 

He turned sharply, nearly tripping over the military paraphernalia lying about on the ground in a messy statement of the usual agitation of the place. He was a trained soldier and Arthas' right hand, he wasn't going to fall on his face like a clumsy trainee, but the prince didn't make his life easier by leaving his mess everywhere. The prince _never_ made his life easier if he could help it, it seemed.

 

“He told me to _purge an entire city_ , and -Light forgives me- I _did_!”

 

Another turn, this time dodging Muradin's spare hammer, left here for anyone to stumble on during the night.

 

“He told me to follow him to some dead, frozen continent to kill a demon, and I did!”

 

His plate armor clanked like a mighty troop of pans and pots at each movement, punctuating his pacing with a familiar cacophony of maladjusted metal. Falric didn't have a second to himself, not even to get his armor repaired at the blacksmith. At this point, it was so low on his list of issues he had to take care of it wasn't even _on_ the list, which should be worrying but, again, what wasn't in these times?

 

“He told me to not wait for the rest of the troops and follow him in the cold wilderness, and I did!” He threw his arms up. “I did all of that, _without complaining_ , and what do I get? A reward, a raise or, Light forbids, a kind word? Nothing! Just endless cold and an undead army trying to rip off my head every other day! I really should have been a farmer.” 

 

At last, he stopped with a final, angry sigh and let himself fall onto the closest chair available, too weary to care about its ominous creaking. Oddly enough, he had managed to stay somewhat composed during the whole thing, and looked more frustrated than angry.

 

Thing was, Falric was beginning to _doubt_ his loyalty to prince Arthas. Not in the 'there will be backstabbing involved soon' kind of doubt, just a general uneasiness at the way Arthas acted and led his troops. 

 

At the way the Scourge had changed him.

 

Arthas was more than just his prince: he was a close friend, and Falric had a deep respect for him. But this revenge-driven _maniac_ was not the man he chose to follow, and it scared him more than any walking corpse out-there. 

 

Knowing Arthas, now that he was on this path, there was nothing that could stop him: no interdiction from his father, no advice from his own troops and not even morals. For a paladin, it didn't seem right to forget _morals_ of all things in favor of personal interests.

 

Falric heard a sound from outside the tent that he recognized as a knock before Marwyn Hallewell entered, followed by Luc Valonforth. He addressed them a tired but honest smile, always glad to see their face whenever they could catch each other.

 

“Please, please tell me you don't have any more bad news to announce,” Falric complained to his comrades. Luc shook his head, and Marwyn chuckled with little humor.

 

“You mean, worst news than 'there are undead everywhere from here to Lordaeron and our prince is falling apart'?”

 

“Don't you mean the _world_ is falling apart?”

 

“Ha, at this point, both are correct.”

 

The two knights took a sit next to Falric, Marwyn to his right and Luc to his left. There was a beat -a small moment of silence in the madness of their life- before Falric, struck by an idea that was just as insane as the whole situation, spoke again.

 

“Let's kidnap him.”

 

“What?” Said Luc, at the same time Marwyn -ever the pragmatic- said, “Who?”

 

“The prince. I say, let's tie him up and throw him on a ship, or I am quite sure we're never coming home unless it's dead and washed up on the shore or with whatshisname's head on a silver plate.” Seeing their unconvinced stares, he added: “We all know Arthas won't give up on this chase himself, no matter what his father the king orders him.”

 

“You're probably right, but don't you trust his judgment? You're usually the first to defend his decisions,” Valonforth asked.

 

“He'll get us all killed with this revenge of his!”

 

Both knights nodded grimly. They, too, had begun to doubt this expedition. Or, rather, how much luck they'd need to survive it.

 

“I'd like my death to take place, if far later in my life, at least on sunnier battlefields.” Marwyn said after another minute of thoughtful silence only broken by the sounds of the camp around them.

 

“Are you sure we cannot reason with him?” Luc looked at their faces and rolled his eyes. “Don't look at me like that, I don't want to end up in some dark cell under Lordaeron because I knocked my superior officer and future king out and threw him on a ship against his will.”

 

“With the way this disaster of an expedition is going, I think the king is more likely to award you a medal for your help rather than banish you to the darkest, dampest cell of Lordaeron.” Marwyn leaned back in his seat and let his head fall, staring at the roof of the tent like it held the answer to all of their (many) problems. “Even if he doesn't, what choice do we have? I'd rather risk imprisonment than… whatever awaits us if he refuses to come back home.”

 

All three sighed in various degrees of exhaustion (Falric, technically being the highest ranking of them all, was also the most tired and his sigh sounded like his last breath more than anything else).

 

“How are we going to do it?” Marwyn asked, raising the most important question that none of them wanted nor knew how to answer.

 

“Most of the troops will follow us, I think. They follow Arthas by sense of duty more than loyalty,” Luc replied. It was not much of an answer, but it did give Falric an idea. 

 

“I have an idea,” He told his two closest friends, as they couldn't read his mind -yet. They immediately gave him their whole attention. “Here's what we're going to do...”

 

\---

 

“Captain, why are the guards not at their posts?”

 

Luc jumped, surprised that Arthas still managed to sneak up on him despite his heavy armor and general loud demeanor. The prince had become quieter and quieter as his self-assigned quest went, he distantly realized. The more things went, and the darker he became. _I should have seen this before_ , Luc thought rather bitterly, _but hindsight is 2020, as they say._

 

“Well, milord, your father had our troops recalled at Lord Uther's request.” He reported, as neutral as he could be given the situation and his anxiety. Since when was he afraid of his prince? Probably since Stratholme, if he thought about it. 

 

He wasn't sure if it was a proof of his talent as an actor or of Arthas' distraction that he didn't notice anything amiss. Instead, he took a few step away, talking under his breath. It was Marwyn (the most discrete of them all, despite his own armor, he must have taken classes with the prince) who heard what he was muttering.

 

“Uther had my troops recalled? Damn it! If my warriors abandon me, I'll never defeat Mal'Ganis. The ships must be burned before the men reach the shore...”

 

“Isn't that a bit much, lad?” Muradin replied just as low as Arthas, and as worried as the knight listening.

 

He looked up from the report he was pretending to read, alarmed, and glanced at Falric, standing across the camp and talking to some of their soldiers. The knight caught his stare and his shoulders dropped. As he thought, his prince could not be reasoned with. He gestured to his men who went to position themselves in a collective sound of metal and leather in movement that got lost in the harsh wind of Northrend. Falric himself in his loud, battered armor, didn't move, until Luc had already brought Arthas' attention back to himself.

 

“We're sorry, milord, but it's for the best.”

 

“What-”

 

Before the prince could end his sentence, the soldiers around jumped on him. A few went to immobilize him, taking him weapon away -it took two of them- and blocking his arms in his back. The others surrounded him and the three knights who shared a look a resolute misery before Falric brought down his sword, pommel first, on his friend's head.

 

The fight, if it could be called that, barely lasted a minute. Captain Tyndall -if he could be called that, too, after an act of high treason like this one- carefully lowered Arthas' unconscious body on the ground. Dragging him to his tent was going to be awful, and he already regretted volunteering to do it. Even without his armor, the man was huge -with it, he was a rock, as all paladin tended to be, and as comforting that was in battle, it was everything but convenient outside of it. 

 

Particularly when trying to kidnap him.

 

Well, as his grandfather told him once: don't kill a man if you can't look him in the eyes doing so, don't knock a paladin out if you won't drag his unconscious ass somewhere he won't be a bother.

 

“Someone grabs the shackles! The rest, get back to work, I want these trees gone by nightfall.” Marwyn barked. The soldiers scrambled away, trying to act like they weren't absolutely terrified by the knight. He then looked at Muradin, who hadn't moved a limb to come to Arthas' help. “You're not going to do anything to stop us, are you?”

 

The dwarf laughed quietly.

 

“I want to get out of this place just as bad as you, lad, and no sword could make me stay one day longer than necessary.”

 

He glanced at the body on the ground, then at Falric.

 

“You want some help with that?”

 

“ _Yes_ , please,” He sighed, relieved.

**Author's Note:**

> Fun fact: in the best cinematic in the history of video games (read: Athas' betrayal), the two knights following him are Falric and Marwyn. The guys _died_ and burned their own city for him! I'm going to cry about them in a corner now.


End file.
